Page 67 of Crown of Tides and Fury

Brian offered to start the list without him, but Wickham cut him off. “I’ve sealed my book back into its box, but ye can do what ye will until Ivy and I return.”

Hisbook. Everyone heard it loud and clear.

* * *

Funnywhat a little adrenaline will do for you.

I may not have slept much the night before, but a good breakfast, a Coke, and a mystery to solve was the perfect combination to get my eyes open that morning and chase away any brain fog lingering in the ruffled ridges of my brain.

I made sure Wickham, Ivy, and Alexander were well and truly gone before I trotted down the hall to the study. There was nothing suspicious about me being there. In fact, half the team were already at the tables, working on computers or browsing books. The three metal boxes sat on the floor against the wall, where Kitch and Persi had been sitting hours before, and though Brian had a book open in front of him, he kept glancing at the pile and frowning. Of course, I was doing the same, but likely for different reasons.

Brian couldn't wait to get his hands on that book, to start searching for new information.

I never expected any of us would get that chance, but I wanted to know if there were pages missing--ragged edges of pages ripped out--and from which section they’d been torn.

I couldn't imagine Wickham had stayed behind to rip pages from something else—and he couldn’t have opened either of the other boxes. Of course, the mystery would be easily solved if I could just find the ripped pieces…

I wandered around the room, pretending to be deep in thought as I glanced down into the garbage cans here and there. I tapped my lips, but my only thought waswhat did he do with them?

No luck.

I supposed he could have popped out to anywhere and gotten rid of them. Why remove pages and leave them lying around for some snoop like me to find? So I gave up and went to the living room to do my thinking. Staring at those boxes might have driven me crazy otherwise. If Griffon was right, and the Fae king was dead, whatever lay inside was lost to the world.

Unless...

I remembered that white mist snaking out of Wickham's fingers. If he’d been lying, if he had killed the Fae king, just as he'd killed the Grandfather, wouldn't he have the king's power inside him too?

Maybe the smartest place to hide the power of Beauty…was beneath an already beautiful face!

The simplest way to find out was to get Wickham to open the other boxes. But would he even want to? Already, he was territorial about door number one. Would he want to keep all that information to himself too?

"Wickham Muir," I whispered, "what are you up to?"

* * *

When one o'clockfinally rolled around, Brian was fit to be tied. Flann was the opposite. His brother's nervous energy bothered him, so he went into the adjoining library as if to get away from him. I wondered if maybe Flann also suspected Wickham of something, and maybe he wasn’t in any hurry to find out.

Wickham finally arrived at ten after the hour, poured himself a drink, then sipped it at the bar as if he hadn't noticed the rest of us waiting anxiously on the other side of the room. Flann came back from the stacks, emptyhanded. His eyes shifted to mine for only a second, but it was enough.

Flann was keeping secrets too—maybe even from his mind-reading brother.

Wickham sucked the last drop and took a clean glass from the shelf, poured a second whisky, and when his wife walked through the door, he handed it to her, kissed her cheek, then left her to it.

Brian started to rise, but Wickham waved him down. "I'll get it." He crouched beside the boxes, his back to us, and whispered some spell that unsealed the top lid. Then he took the book to Brian's desk and offered it to the instantly placated Irishman. "Find the end of the first section. Let's see what it says about Mercail's power. Perhaps the wee lassie Griffon has taken is not the witch we seek. We must be certain."

Brian nodded and did as he was told, flipping through pages, flipping back, until he found what Wickham was looking for. "The last name listed, before the Thessa section, is Michelle McAllistair, Aberdeen. There's even a postal code, so there is." He read it aloud for Kitch, who was busy on his laptop, tracking the woman down.

"Michelle middle name McAllistair, of Aberdeenshire. Obituary. Lost at sea off the coast near Peterhead. Looks like five years exactly---from wee Fallon's recent birthday party."

"Holy shit," fell from my mouth, as it usually did when some puzzle piece clicked into place and proved I wasn’t in Kansas—or Hazelton—anymore.

I got up from the table and my feet took me to Brian, so I could look over his shoulder at the actual words on the page. He pointed to the birthdate. Fallon’s birthdate.

“That’s crazy.”

“Looks like the oldSeanathairwas on our side, so it does.”

“Aye, well,” Wickham said, “we mustn’t forget Afi Cean More’s hand in breaking the contract. And until we ken the why of it, ye’ll forgive me if I withhold my complete trust in his words, written or otherwise.”

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